The Last Dragon Thief: III.32 - 35
Part: III 32 - 35
Words: About 3,000
Warnings: None
Summary: Mrs Malfoy surrounds herself with caring friends, Ron finds tea biscuits and a second mother, Hermione provides history, and Harry does all the things that Harry does best.
-x-
III.32
‘I was expecting snow,’ Ron quipped as they surveyed the town from their vista. ‘And, look, sunshine and blue sky, green grass and trees ready to blossom. Hmm. I admit it, I’m disappointed.’
Hermione’s interest in Schneestadt was less personal and more educational. ‘Look at those buildings! Just imagine how old they must be! Ancient! I do wish we could spend more time here. It would be fascinating. Isn’t it rather a pretty place?’
‘The word you’re looking for is quaint,’ said Ron. ‘Doesn’t exactly look like Hogsmeade, does it? Hogsmeade’s, like, a quaint village in the English countryside done to the point of caricature. But not Schneestadt.’
‘It’s also older than Hogsmeade by a hundred and fifty years.’
‘You know too much, wife of mine. Someone might find you very dangerous someday.’
‘Too late for that!’
Ron grumbled incoherently, then smacked Harry on the arm. ‘What do you think, Harry?’
‘Well, like you, Ron, I was expecting snow,’ replied Harry. ‘It is called Snowtown.’
‘That the extent of your German? Very funny, Harry.’ Hermione tapped Ron on the arm. His face was beginning to redden from the heat. ‘Come on, it’s hot standing in the sun like lizards. According to the map, there’s a road on the other side of this meadow that takes us into the village.’
Hermione led the way, followed by Ron, Harry loitering behind several paces.
His stomach screamed in musical harmony with his nerves. He glanced at the village, it lay in a little dale between three hills, brick and clapboard buildings, close together, with colourful roofs, a barrage of chimneys, and narrow, winding streets. It was much larger than Hogsmeade, perhaps three times the size. And Harry tried to command his anxiety.
The first and the last person he wanted to speak to was Narcissa Malfoy. He had thought no one would find out he’d been to Malfoy Manor. And now he was about to expose the secret to the very woman he’d always feared would find out.
III.33
On a residential street in the north of town, Hermione stood before a house. Ron surveyed the place with a repulsed expression. Harry had no expression at all. It was a house of darkly stained wood, a bright yellow front door, and someone had recently planted a row of cheerful flowers along the walkway. Red window boxes continued the flowers, on the first, second, and third storey. For the house was narrow, quite narrow, lodged between two dissimilar residences, and giving each a significant uniqueness.
While Hermione and Ron finished their observation, Harry strode by them and took the path. He pushed his glasses up as he went. He drew a deep breath and let it out. The waves rolled inside. There was no stopping the surge. He had faced Death Eaters and a Dark Lord, and yet he was terrified to hold a conversation with Draco Malfoy’s mother. Harry gave his head a clearing shake. Knowing it was ridiculous, such courage in the face of one matter, total weakness in the other. But he feared she’d have a mother’s ability to examine into the heart, to see what had happened, what Draco had done, and find a way to blame Harry. And there was no reasoning his way from it. If Narcissa Malfoy discovered that her son had kissed Harry Potter, Harry Potter would have no way to explain why he had allowed it to happen a second time. She would know he’d been allured. She’d know.
‘Bollocks,’ he whispered to himself at the door. Shoulders straightened, he let the brass knocker announce him three times in succession. When it was pulled in, Harry looked down, anticipating the elongated nose and globular eyes of a house-elf. Instead, he found a little blonde-haired, brown-eyed child, a young girl of seven.
‘Hello,’ he said in English as he stooped, ‘my name is Harry Potter. Is your mum or dad about?’
She beamed at him but angled away. The house swallowed her. They heard her shout in German. Eyebrows raised, Harry looked to Hermione. She shrugged and said she didn’t know much German. And Ron claimed the same.
‘It’s going to be a very long day,’ Harry reminded himself. ‘Very long.’
The door creaked as he finished, and the little girl reappeared, latched to the hand of herself in adult form. The girl’s mother, clearly, with the same shade of golden blonde hair, the same shade of cedar brown eyes.
‘Hello,’ Harry recited again, ‘my name is Harry Potter. These are my friends, Ron and Hermione. I’m interested in speaking to Narcissa Malfoy. We were told she lives at this address.’
A cold reception from the woman, before she showed a quiet, unassuming smile, friendly in every way. She drew the door farther from the jamb and stepped aside. ‘Come in, Mr Potter. Your friends are welcome, too.’
They gave their thanks and entered a crowded foyer. Harry’s senses were subjected to dark woodwork and walls of autumnal hues: oranges, reds, golds. The tight staircase was open all the way to the third storey, with balconies and landings between, and a ceiling of planks far above their heads. The home smelled remarkably pleasant, of comfortable spices native to fairytale woods. Baskets and vases of flowers were on every flat surface. The house cheered their travel-weary spirits. Harry surveyed the reactions of Ron and Hermione, and saw they felt the same. It grew harder and harder to believe Narcissa Malfoy could live in a place so domestic. She seemed cold as a serpent, as one who ought to live only at the bottom of the darkest sea.
‘It is a pleasure meeting you,’ their host began. ‘My name is Adelle Klewer. If you’ll allow me to, I’ll show you the parlour.’
The room was on the other side of the foyer, a handful of steps away. The little girl that had answered the door was there, rambunctiously climbing the furniture. She did not notice her mother enter until disciplining claps set her to attention. She dashed from the room. Harry found the little girl amusing and asked for her name.
‘That is Luete. She is the baby of the family. Very spoiled.’ Adelle Klewer had a melodic laugh. ‘And now that Narcissa has come, Luete is even more spoiled. You’ll wait here while I find Narcissa for you. I think she is in the garden.’ Adelle exited through the same open way that Luete had dashed, a distant part of the house adjacent to the foyer.
Harry was the first to find a place to wait. He chose a chair by the window, and spied through the lace curtains at the residential street. ‘I can’t believe I’m sitting in a stranger’s house in Germany.’
‘I can’t believe I’m in Germany,’ Ron said. He looked at Hermione.
‘Sorry, I’m not feeling so surreal. I did make the all the plans that got us here. That adds a touch of realism. And she’s not a stranger. She’s Adelle Klewer. I’m sure she must’ve been my mother in another life.’
Harry and Ron agreed. ‘Wonder if she’s got biscuits? All mums have biscuits.’
And as if Ron had made a wish, Adelle returned, bringing a tea tray trimmed with chocolate biscuits. Ron beamed.
‘Narcissa will be with us in a moment,’ said Adelle. ‘I thought we might like tea.’
As Ron’s cup was poured, Narcissa appeared. Harry had the obscene notion that he ought to rise, and did so. It was a pleasure to face her in his full height, such as it was, if not his full wits.
The surprise of Harry Potter’s visit had been the pleasure of Adelle, and Narcissa had needed a moment to compose herself before parleying with him. ‘Mr Potter,’ she tipped her chin down in an effort to congenially nod, ‘how do you do?’
‘Mrs Malfoy, thank you for seeing me.’
She was not the aloof icicle that Harry had expected. While she was not warm, she had a simple sense of affection and understanding of people. She had even experienced empathy once or twice, love about as often, and commiseration in infantile ways.
But Harry grew leery of this visit. He had realised last night that Draco resembled his mother more than his father. To see her again was to see the vague outline of Draco. Harry began to entertain, in his semi-conscious, exactly the moment when it had ceased to feel that the last he saw Draco was that morning. When had lifetimes passed since they’d seen each other? Surely he had aged a decade since that morning.
‘I hardly anticipated meeting with you in Germany of all places, Mr Potter,’ Narcissa said. She located a seat on the sofa, accepted the tea, while Harry returned to the edge of the chair. He was not relaxed, Narcissa noted, and was blatantly disinterested in the tea. ‘Is there some particular reason you and your friends have come? It’s not exactly a spontaneous visit from England to Germany. One has to plan these things.’
Harry was indeed disinterested in his tea. He put it back on the low table, near the tray, and wringed his now empty hands. The best approach with a Malfoy was bluntness, otherwise they would execute angles, and draw the conversation away from them as much as possible.
‘I want to talk to you about Draco.’
There, blunt enough. He could tell by the way she stared at him. Adelle Klewer sensed it, made an excuse none of them heard, and departed.
Narcissa was already plotting her manoeuvre. She would not be undone so early, no matter the amount of admirable bluntness from Harry Potter. ‘Yes, of course. Draco has written to me often since his return to England, and he loves to talk about his work at the Ministry. He has mentioned you once or twice-in passing.’ She accidentally lowered her gaze, and Harry interpreted that Draco had mentioned him far more than twice. So often, in fact, as to madden his mother and blossom her annoyance. ‘You have been very accepting of the change in him since the war. I know he appreciates your kindness. Others have not found his alteration of character so palatable, Mr Potter. And through your acceptance, Draco has found an easier time.’
She stopped with a sense of finality. That was all she meant to say of the subject. Harry shifted. While secretly pleased that Draco had mentioned him so often as to exasperate his mother, Harry pressed on. Blunt. He must be blunt. All the Malfoys were sharp, it was their way, but only against the whetstone.
‘Draco has gone off, Mrs Malfoy, and I don’t know where he is. I don’t think you know, either, but I want you to tell me what you do know about Draco’s time here in Germany. If there is something he did that was unusual, or someone he knew that he shouldn’t have. Did he ever get himself in trouble?’
‘In trouble? No, Mr Potter, he wasn’t in trouble. He worked extremely hard, and did whatever the embassy asked of him. He was liked by his co-workers, appreciated in his small group of friends, and made no enemies. The embassy found no fault in his performance. He was never chastised for fractiousness or disciplined for lateness. He liked his job. He liked his friends. I’m sure if he’s gone off, he’s simply visiting one of them.’
‘Who?’ Now it was Hermione that asked. Harry could see her mind waiting, like a brain holding a quill over parchment, ready to write down the names of those Draco may visit. It was no matter that Hermione didn’t believe Draco visited a friend. She believed Harry. The names were craved, only the names.
The point of Narcissa’s nose lifted slightly, an innate reaction to the shock of having to divulge her son’s personal life. To make it easier, she answered only while looking at Harry.
‘You’ll want to try Markel Worrall. He and Draco were the closest of friends. Did everything together, went everywhere together. If my son had gone anywhere he shouldn’t, and if anyone would know, Mr Worrall would.’
At a small writing desk, Narcissa found a white-topped quill and scribbled on a piece of scrap parchment. She extended the scrap to Harry.
‘I know the way there by heart. It used to be Draco’s home.’
III.34
The hasp on the low wooden gate slipped in place behind Harry. He pushed up his glasses to better read the parchment Mrs Malfoy had provided. Dutifully, the article was given to Hermione, who would find it on the map. They had found Narcissa Malfoy by asking a friendly florist in the heart of Schneestadt. And Harry, after being inside the house, witnessing the array of vases filled with fresh-cut nosegays, suddenly understood why the florist had provided such accurate directions, and so enthusiastically. Hermione had picked up a map of the town at the Visitor’s House. She unfolded it now after reading the address. She pulled her nose from the folds only when Ron made an appropriate observation.
‘You know something, Harry? She didn’t mention anything about your cloak. You’d think that, being his mum and all, she’d recognise Malfoy’s cloak.’
Harry glanced down at the garment. ‘No, she didn’t. I noticed that, too.’
‘Well, you know what that means.’ Hermione lifted the map higher. Only her bushy hair was visible beyond the paper edges.
‘Not really,’ Harry and Ron told her simultaneously.
Hermione’s hands tightened and the paper crinkled in protest. But she didn’t give in to an annoyed sigh. ‘It means, obviously, that Draco got the cloak after he went back to Wiltshire.’
‘Or he hid it from his mum,’ Harry added.
‘Why would he?’ enquired Ron. Then he answered himself. ‘Unless he spent seven hundred galleons on it, and knew his mum wouldn’t like him throwing his money away, and so he didn’t want to wear it in front of her.’
Hermione’s right eyebrow drew down. Harry read it to mean she doubted the statement. ‘Yeah,’ she said in a faint voice, ‘yeah, maybe.’
But none of them really believed it. To Harry, the Wiltshire cloak was part of the mystery. Draco had given him the cloak for a reason. And Harry was convinced that wherever Draco had Apparated to that morning, in the rain and the gloom, he’d been relieved to see it around Harry’s shoulders.
Snobbery and relief and hope, those were the ingredients of the last stare they had shared. Harry hadn’t remembered hope till now.
III.35
‘Just our luck,’ grumbled Ron as Harry’s knock went unanswered. ‘He’s not home!’
Finding the residence of Markel Worrall had been a breeze. He lived three blocks from the Klewer house. But finding Markel Worrall at home was an act out of their control.
‘Now what do we do?’ Harry asked between Ron and Hermione.
Neither had a keen idea. Formulating possibilities, they traversed the path from house to road. A faint whistling ascended above the common pedestrian din, and a scent of herbs and flowers cloyed the cool breeze. Harry shot a glance at his friends, then darted to find the whistler. He caught her up, the chestnut-haired flower lady. And she greeted him with her warm smile and thick German accent.
‘Oh you again, is it? Did you find Mrs Malfoy?’
‘Yes, thanks. But now we’re looking for a man named Markel Worrall. We’ve been to his house but he’s not at home, and we-’
Hermione stepped forward. ‘Do you happen to know where he works? I know it’s Saturday and all, but-’ She quitted the explanation, wondering if she wasn’t a prattling fool.
The florist witch broadened her smile for a brief moment. ‘Markel Worrall, you say? Markel Worrall. He was good friends with Mrs Malfoy’s son. Kept to himself, he did.’
Harry winced. Was it Worrall or Malfoy that kept to himself? He hadn’t the chance to ask, for the florist rearranged roses on her cart, and plucked out a white rosebud while speaking to him.
‘He’ll be at the pitch, this time of day. It’s near practice time. Oh you’ll find a large crowd there today, with the nice weather. Here, dear, you should have this.’
Blank of mind, Harry took the perfect rose. ‘Er, thanks. What pitch?’
‘The pitch. You mean you don’t know? Never heard of him?’ The tickle of hilarity sparkled in her as she glanced at each, eager-eyed and anticipatory. ‘But you know Quidditch, don’t you? Markel Worrall is the best Quidditch player Germany’s had in years! You’ll find him in Heidelberg.’ Then she pointed south-east, as though to indicate the direction of the city.
Harry, Ron and Hermione stood about for a moment. This information was stultifying. Then Harry twirled the rose, not noticing that the good florist had moved her cart and whistle along.
‘I guess we’re off to Heidelberg,’ he said. ‘This is turning out to be a bigger adventure than I thought.’ The flower lost a petal being crammed into a pocket.
‘Sorry part is,’ Ron picked up, ‘I get this nasty feeling it isn’t nearly done with yet. Oh well. It’s Saturday. Didn’t have anything better to do but fix the laundry line.’
Hermione snickered, taking Ron’s hand. They headed through the bustling village, back to the meadow. ‘Only after I’d pestered you for hours.’
‘And since when have you done a load of laundry, may I ask? Oh no, not you! Say, Harry, have you ever heard of this Worrall bloke? I never have.’
‘I haven’t, actually,’ replied Harry. ‘But I don’t follow German teams unless they play one of the British teams.’
‘Same here. Wonder if he’s as good as that witch claims he is?’
Hermione grabbed Harry’s hand, the three of them linked in the centre of the clearing, trees and underbrush encircling. ‘Well, we’re about to find out.’
-x-
Continue...
Words: About 3,000
Warnings: None
Summary: Mrs Malfoy surrounds herself with caring friends, Ron finds tea biscuits and a second mother, Hermione provides history, and Harry does all the things that Harry does best.
-x-
III.32
‘I was expecting snow,’ Ron quipped as they surveyed the town from their vista. ‘And, look, sunshine and blue sky, green grass and trees ready to blossom. Hmm. I admit it, I’m disappointed.’
Hermione’s interest in Schneestadt was less personal and more educational. ‘Look at those buildings! Just imagine how old they must be! Ancient! I do wish we could spend more time here. It would be fascinating. Isn’t it rather a pretty place?’
‘The word you’re looking for is quaint,’ said Ron. ‘Doesn’t exactly look like Hogsmeade, does it? Hogsmeade’s, like, a quaint village in the English countryside done to the point of caricature. But not Schneestadt.’
‘It’s also older than Hogsmeade by a hundred and fifty years.’
‘You know too much, wife of mine. Someone might find you very dangerous someday.’
‘Too late for that!’
Ron grumbled incoherently, then smacked Harry on the arm. ‘What do you think, Harry?’
‘Well, like you, Ron, I was expecting snow,’ replied Harry. ‘It is called Snowtown.’
‘That the extent of your German? Very funny, Harry.’ Hermione tapped Ron on the arm. His face was beginning to redden from the heat. ‘Come on, it’s hot standing in the sun like lizards. According to the map, there’s a road on the other side of this meadow that takes us into the village.’
Hermione led the way, followed by Ron, Harry loitering behind several paces.
His stomach screamed in musical harmony with his nerves. He glanced at the village, it lay in a little dale between three hills, brick and clapboard buildings, close together, with colourful roofs, a barrage of chimneys, and narrow, winding streets. It was much larger than Hogsmeade, perhaps three times the size. And Harry tried to command his anxiety.
The first and the last person he wanted to speak to was Narcissa Malfoy. He had thought no one would find out he’d been to Malfoy Manor. And now he was about to expose the secret to the very woman he’d always feared would find out.
III.33
On a residential street in the north of town, Hermione stood before a house. Ron surveyed the place with a repulsed expression. Harry had no expression at all. It was a house of darkly stained wood, a bright yellow front door, and someone had recently planted a row of cheerful flowers along the walkway. Red window boxes continued the flowers, on the first, second, and third storey. For the house was narrow, quite narrow, lodged between two dissimilar residences, and giving each a significant uniqueness.
While Hermione and Ron finished their observation, Harry strode by them and took the path. He pushed his glasses up as he went. He drew a deep breath and let it out. The waves rolled inside. There was no stopping the surge. He had faced Death Eaters and a Dark Lord, and yet he was terrified to hold a conversation with Draco Malfoy’s mother. Harry gave his head a clearing shake. Knowing it was ridiculous, such courage in the face of one matter, total weakness in the other. But he feared she’d have a mother’s ability to examine into the heart, to see what had happened, what Draco had done, and find a way to blame Harry. And there was no reasoning his way from it. If Narcissa Malfoy discovered that her son had kissed Harry Potter, Harry Potter would have no way to explain why he had allowed it to happen a second time. She would know he’d been allured. She’d know.
‘Bollocks,’ he whispered to himself at the door. Shoulders straightened, he let the brass knocker announce him three times in succession. When it was pulled in, Harry looked down, anticipating the elongated nose and globular eyes of a house-elf. Instead, he found a little blonde-haired, brown-eyed child, a young girl of seven.
‘Hello,’ he said in English as he stooped, ‘my name is Harry Potter. Is your mum or dad about?’
She beamed at him but angled away. The house swallowed her. They heard her shout in German. Eyebrows raised, Harry looked to Hermione. She shrugged and said she didn’t know much German. And Ron claimed the same.
‘It’s going to be a very long day,’ Harry reminded himself. ‘Very long.’
The door creaked as he finished, and the little girl reappeared, latched to the hand of herself in adult form. The girl’s mother, clearly, with the same shade of golden blonde hair, the same shade of cedar brown eyes.
‘Hello,’ Harry recited again, ‘my name is Harry Potter. These are my friends, Ron and Hermione. I’m interested in speaking to Narcissa Malfoy. We were told she lives at this address.’
A cold reception from the woman, before she showed a quiet, unassuming smile, friendly in every way. She drew the door farther from the jamb and stepped aside. ‘Come in, Mr Potter. Your friends are welcome, too.’
They gave their thanks and entered a crowded foyer. Harry’s senses were subjected to dark woodwork and walls of autumnal hues: oranges, reds, golds. The tight staircase was open all the way to the third storey, with balconies and landings between, and a ceiling of planks far above their heads. The home smelled remarkably pleasant, of comfortable spices native to fairytale woods. Baskets and vases of flowers were on every flat surface. The house cheered their travel-weary spirits. Harry surveyed the reactions of Ron and Hermione, and saw they felt the same. It grew harder and harder to believe Narcissa Malfoy could live in a place so domestic. She seemed cold as a serpent, as one who ought to live only at the bottom of the darkest sea.
‘It is a pleasure meeting you,’ their host began. ‘My name is Adelle Klewer. If you’ll allow me to, I’ll show you the parlour.’
The room was on the other side of the foyer, a handful of steps away. The little girl that had answered the door was there, rambunctiously climbing the furniture. She did not notice her mother enter until disciplining claps set her to attention. She dashed from the room. Harry found the little girl amusing and asked for her name.
‘That is Luete. She is the baby of the family. Very spoiled.’ Adelle Klewer had a melodic laugh. ‘And now that Narcissa has come, Luete is even more spoiled. You’ll wait here while I find Narcissa for you. I think she is in the garden.’ Adelle exited through the same open way that Luete had dashed, a distant part of the house adjacent to the foyer.
Harry was the first to find a place to wait. He chose a chair by the window, and spied through the lace curtains at the residential street. ‘I can’t believe I’m sitting in a stranger’s house in Germany.’
‘I can’t believe I’m in Germany,’ Ron said. He looked at Hermione.
‘Sorry, I’m not feeling so surreal. I did make the all the plans that got us here. That adds a touch of realism. And she’s not a stranger. She’s Adelle Klewer. I’m sure she must’ve been my mother in another life.’
Harry and Ron agreed. ‘Wonder if she’s got biscuits? All mums have biscuits.’
And as if Ron had made a wish, Adelle returned, bringing a tea tray trimmed with chocolate biscuits. Ron beamed.
‘Narcissa will be with us in a moment,’ said Adelle. ‘I thought we might like tea.’
As Ron’s cup was poured, Narcissa appeared. Harry had the obscene notion that he ought to rise, and did so. It was a pleasure to face her in his full height, such as it was, if not his full wits.
The surprise of Harry Potter’s visit had been the pleasure of Adelle, and Narcissa had needed a moment to compose herself before parleying with him. ‘Mr Potter,’ she tipped her chin down in an effort to congenially nod, ‘how do you do?’
‘Mrs Malfoy, thank you for seeing me.’
She was not the aloof icicle that Harry had expected. While she was not warm, she had a simple sense of affection and understanding of people. She had even experienced empathy once or twice, love about as often, and commiseration in infantile ways.
But Harry grew leery of this visit. He had realised last night that Draco resembled his mother more than his father. To see her again was to see the vague outline of Draco. Harry began to entertain, in his semi-conscious, exactly the moment when it had ceased to feel that the last he saw Draco was that morning. When had lifetimes passed since they’d seen each other? Surely he had aged a decade since that morning.
‘I hardly anticipated meeting with you in Germany of all places, Mr Potter,’ Narcissa said. She located a seat on the sofa, accepted the tea, while Harry returned to the edge of the chair. He was not relaxed, Narcissa noted, and was blatantly disinterested in the tea. ‘Is there some particular reason you and your friends have come? It’s not exactly a spontaneous visit from England to Germany. One has to plan these things.’
Harry was indeed disinterested in his tea. He put it back on the low table, near the tray, and wringed his now empty hands. The best approach with a Malfoy was bluntness, otherwise they would execute angles, and draw the conversation away from them as much as possible.
‘I want to talk to you about Draco.’
There, blunt enough. He could tell by the way she stared at him. Adelle Klewer sensed it, made an excuse none of them heard, and departed.
Narcissa was already plotting her manoeuvre. She would not be undone so early, no matter the amount of admirable bluntness from Harry Potter. ‘Yes, of course. Draco has written to me often since his return to England, and he loves to talk about his work at the Ministry. He has mentioned you once or twice-in passing.’ She accidentally lowered her gaze, and Harry interpreted that Draco had mentioned him far more than twice. So often, in fact, as to madden his mother and blossom her annoyance. ‘You have been very accepting of the change in him since the war. I know he appreciates your kindness. Others have not found his alteration of character so palatable, Mr Potter. And through your acceptance, Draco has found an easier time.’
She stopped with a sense of finality. That was all she meant to say of the subject. Harry shifted. While secretly pleased that Draco had mentioned him so often as to exasperate his mother, Harry pressed on. Blunt. He must be blunt. All the Malfoys were sharp, it was their way, but only against the whetstone.
‘Draco has gone off, Mrs Malfoy, and I don’t know where he is. I don’t think you know, either, but I want you to tell me what you do know about Draco’s time here in Germany. If there is something he did that was unusual, or someone he knew that he shouldn’t have. Did he ever get himself in trouble?’
‘In trouble? No, Mr Potter, he wasn’t in trouble. He worked extremely hard, and did whatever the embassy asked of him. He was liked by his co-workers, appreciated in his small group of friends, and made no enemies. The embassy found no fault in his performance. He was never chastised for fractiousness or disciplined for lateness. He liked his job. He liked his friends. I’m sure if he’s gone off, he’s simply visiting one of them.’
‘Who?’ Now it was Hermione that asked. Harry could see her mind waiting, like a brain holding a quill over parchment, ready to write down the names of those Draco may visit. It was no matter that Hermione didn’t believe Draco visited a friend. She believed Harry. The names were craved, only the names.
The point of Narcissa’s nose lifted slightly, an innate reaction to the shock of having to divulge her son’s personal life. To make it easier, she answered only while looking at Harry.
‘You’ll want to try Markel Worrall. He and Draco were the closest of friends. Did everything together, went everywhere together. If my son had gone anywhere he shouldn’t, and if anyone would know, Mr Worrall would.’
At a small writing desk, Narcissa found a white-topped quill and scribbled on a piece of scrap parchment. She extended the scrap to Harry.
‘I know the way there by heart. It used to be Draco’s home.’
III.34
The hasp on the low wooden gate slipped in place behind Harry. He pushed up his glasses to better read the parchment Mrs Malfoy had provided. Dutifully, the article was given to Hermione, who would find it on the map. They had found Narcissa Malfoy by asking a friendly florist in the heart of Schneestadt. And Harry, after being inside the house, witnessing the array of vases filled with fresh-cut nosegays, suddenly understood why the florist had provided such accurate directions, and so enthusiastically. Hermione had picked up a map of the town at the Visitor’s House. She unfolded it now after reading the address. She pulled her nose from the folds only when Ron made an appropriate observation.
‘You know something, Harry? She didn’t mention anything about your cloak. You’d think that, being his mum and all, she’d recognise Malfoy’s cloak.’
Harry glanced down at the garment. ‘No, she didn’t. I noticed that, too.’
‘Well, you know what that means.’ Hermione lifted the map higher. Only her bushy hair was visible beyond the paper edges.
‘Not really,’ Harry and Ron told her simultaneously.
Hermione’s hands tightened and the paper crinkled in protest. But she didn’t give in to an annoyed sigh. ‘It means, obviously, that Draco got the cloak after he went back to Wiltshire.’
‘Or he hid it from his mum,’ Harry added.
‘Why would he?’ enquired Ron. Then he answered himself. ‘Unless he spent seven hundred galleons on it, and knew his mum wouldn’t like him throwing his money away, and so he didn’t want to wear it in front of her.’
Hermione’s right eyebrow drew down. Harry read it to mean she doubted the statement. ‘Yeah,’ she said in a faint voice, ‘yeah, maybe.’
But none of them really believed it. To Harry, the Wiltshire cloak was part of the mystery. Draco had given him the cloak for a reason. And Harry was convinced that wherever Draco had Apparated to that morning, in the rain and the gloom, he’d been relieved to see it around Harry’s shoulders.
Snobbery and relief and hope, those were the ingredients of the last stare they had shared. Harry hadn’t remembered hope till now.
III.35
‘Just our luck,’ grumbled Ron as Harry’s knock went unanswered. ‘He’s not home!’
Finding the residence of Markel Worrall had been a breeze. He lived three blocks from the Klewer house. But finding Markel Worrall at home was an act out of their control.
‘Now what do we do?’ Harry asked between Ron and Hermione.
Neither had a keen idea. Formulating possibilities, they traversed the path from house to road. A faint whistling ascended above the common pedestrian din, and a scent of herbs and flowers cloyed the cool breeze. Harry shot a glance at his friends, then darted to find the whistler. He caught her up, the chestnut-haired flower lady. And she greeted him with her warm smile and thick German accent.
‘Oh you again, is it? Did you find Mrs Malfoy?’
‘Yes, thanks. But now we’re looking for a man named Markel Worrall. We’ve been to his house but he’s not at home, and we-’
Hermione stepped forward. ‘Do you happen to know where he works? I know it’s Saturday and all, but-’ She quitted the explanation, wondering if she wasn’t a prattling fool.
The florist witch broadened her smile for a brief moment. ‘Markel Worrall, you say? Markel Worrall. He was good friends with Mrs Malfoy’s son. Kept to himself, he did.’
Harry winced. Was it Worrall or Malfoy that kept to himself? He hadn’t the chance to ask, for the florist rearranged roses on her cart, and plucked out a white rosebud while speaking to him.
‘He’ll be at the pitch, this time of day. It’s near practice time. Oh you’ll find a large crowd there today, with the nice weather. Here, dear, you should have this.’
Blank of mind, Harry took the perfect rose. ‘Er, thanks. What pitch?’
‘The pitch. You mean you don’t know? Never heard of him?’ The tickle of hilarity sparkled in her as she glanced at each, eager-eyed and anticipatory. ‘But you know Quidditch, don’t you? Markel Worrall is the best Quidditch player Germany’s had in years! You’ll find him in Heidelberg.’ Then she pointed south-east, as though to indicate the direction of the city.
Harry, Ron and Hermione stood about for a moment. This information was stultifying. Then Harry twirled the rose, not noticing that the good florist had moved her cart and whistle along.
‘I guess we’re off to Heidelberg,’ he said. ‘This is turning out to be a bigger adventure than I thought.’ The flower lost a petal being crammed into a pocket.
‘Sorry part is,’ Ron picked up, ‘I get this nasty feeling it isn’t nearly done with yet. Oh well. It’s Saturday. Didn’t have anything better to do but fix the laundry line.’
Hermione snickered, taking Ron’s hand. They headed through the bustling village, back to the meadow. ‘Only after I’d pestered you for hours.’
‘And since when have you done a load of laundry, may I ask? Oh no, not you! Say, Harry, have you ever heard of this Worrall bloke? I never have.’
‘I haven’t, actually,’ replied Harry. ‘But I don’t follow German teams unless they play one of the British teams.’
‘Same here. Wonder if he’s as good as that witch claims he is?’
Hermione grabbed Harry’s hand, the three of them linked in the centre of the clearing, trees and underbrush encircling. ‘Well, we’re about to find out.’
-x-
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